Packing the China

The crinkle of newspaper was the only sound in the kitchen.

Anne folded a sheet over a porcelain bowl, careful not to chip it. The china was older than herself, patterned with delicate, dainty, blue flowers that had faded in places. Across the table, her mum, Mary, wrapped tea saucers with the same quiet focus she used to peel apples—efficient, silent, sharp.

Neither of them mentioned the funeral.

The kitchen had always smelled faintly of lemon soap and dust, but today it was overwhelmed by the scent of cardboard and old paper. The blinds were half-closed, casting long slats of grayish light across the counter. Most of the furniture in the living room had already been covered with white sheets, ghostlike. Boxes lined the hallway like voiceless sentinels.

“I forgot how many dishes she had,” Anne said at last.

Mary didn’t look up. “She collected them. Said you never know when you’ll have twelve guests over for tea.”

Anne gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happened often.”

Mary’s lips twitched, but she said nothing. She reached for another plate. Anne noticed a red mark on her knuckle—a fresh cut, probably from tidying up.

They carried on in silence.

Anne reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a teacup. Its rim was chipped, the porcelain thinner there, as though worn down by time itself.

“She still kept this,” Anne said.

“She liked that it had a story.” Mary’s tone of voice was softer now.

Anne ran a thumb along the edge of the chipped porcelain. She remembered being five, reaching for it, and her grandmother snapping—not cruel, just sharp. Later that same day, the cup had been beside her hot chocolate, chip and all. Her grandmother had never mentioned it again.

“Did she ever tell you what the story was?” Anne asked.

“No.”

Anne turned the cup again, then nestled it gently into the box between crumpled newspaper and wrapped bowls.

“She never threw things out, did she?”

“She kept what she could,” Mary said.

Anne glanced around. The room looked smaller than it had when she was a child, more crammed. The floral wallpaper had yellowed and started to peel in one corner. The kettle still sat on the stovetop, clean but unused.

“I always hated that wallpaper,” she said.

“She picked it.”

“I figured.”

“She thought it looked cheerful.”

“It gave me a headache.”

Another pause.

“She asked about you,” Mary said suddenly. “Near the end.”

Anne didn’t look up. “I know.”

Mary nodded once. “I didn’t want to pressure you.”

“I wouldn’t have come anyway,” Anne said. Her voice was steady, but sullen.

They reached the third shelf. Pie dishes. Round, deep, some with scalloped edges. A layer of dust clung to the back corner.

“You want that one?” Mary asked, motioning to a ceramic dish with a faint pink floral rim.

Anne hesitated. “I suppose.”

“She’d want you to have it.”

“You think?”

“You’re the only one who ever got the crust right.”

Anne smiled faintly. “She taught me.”

“She didn’t teach me that way.”

It wasn’t bitter. Just a fact.

Anne picked up the dish and wrapped it slowly, layer by layer.

Inside the cupboard door, taped crookedly, was an old index card. Faded blue pen ink in neat cursive letters: “Apple Pie.” A few grease stains at the edges.

“She kept it up there all this time?”

“Guess she didn’t want to forget.”

Anne reached for it, then paused. “Shall we leave it?”

Mary shook her head. “Take it. She won’t know.”

Anne peeled the tape gently and folded the card into her back pocket. The paper felt fragile, as though too much pressure would dissolve it.

They worked in silence for a while.

“I didn’t say anything at the service,” Anne said.

“I noticed.”

“I’m sorry… There just wasn’t anything left to say.”

“People say things anyway.”

“I didn’t want to lie.”

“You could’ve just said thank you.”

Anne didn’t reply.

A fly buzzed near the window, circling lazily before disappearing behind a curtain fold.

They finished the box. Mary sealed it with a strip of brown masking tape and labelled it in thick black marker: China – Kitchen.

Anne leaned against the counter, rubbing her thumb where a papercut stung.

“I made tea the other night,” she said. “Just out of habit.”

Mary glanced over. “Did you drink it?”

Anne nodded. “Tasted like nothing.”

“Let’s try again.”

Mary filled the kettle from the tap and switched it on. The familiar click. A low rumble. The kind of sound that didn’t mean much, but somehow brought comfort.

They sat at the small kitchen table. The bright yellow table runner contrasting sharply with the dull brown carpet.

Mary stirred sugar into hers. Anne took hers plain. The cups were mismatched—one with a rose decal, the other plain white.

“She was so stern,” Anne said quietly.

“Yes, but she was still my mum,” Mary replied.

Anne traced a finger along the edge of her cup. “Do you think she ever forgave me?”

Mary exhaled. “I think… I think she didn’t know how to say she had.”

The light had changed now, warming the corners of the room. Dust hung in the air, catching in the golden glow.

Anne took a sip. Still bitter, but not as sharp.

“Next time,” she said, “you make the crust.”

Mary gave a soft chuckle. “I’ll burn it.”

“That’s fine,” Anne said. “We’ll still eat it.”

They sat in silence, the china packed, the past folded neatly between sheets of newspaper.

A small wind rattled the blinds. The kettle clicked as it cooled. Neither of them moved to clear the cups.

Anne glanced around the kitchen—at the fading wallpaper, the worn linoleum, the chair that always creaked.

It didn’t feel like home, but it didn’t feel unfamiliar either—more like a place she’d been shaped by, even if she’d never truly belonged to it.

She reached into her pocket and touched the folded recipe card.

“I might try baking it tomorrow,” she murmured.

Mary smiled faintly. “She’d like that.”

The silence lingered, but it no longer felt like absence.